Picture Perfect Part 26

"No problem," Will said. He tipped the neck of his beer to Ca.s.sie's gla.s.s in a toast, thinking that, miraculously, this h.e.l.lhole corner of South Dakota agreed with her. "Rumor has it you've become some Big Indian," he said.

Ca.s.sie flushed. "Thanks," she said.

Will laughed. "To a lot of Lakota, that's an insult worthy of a fistfight," he said. "It wasn't meant as a compliment."

Rolling the gla.s.s between her palms, Ca.s.sie glared up at Will. "At least I'm trying to fit in," she said pointedly.

Like you never did. The gibe hung in the air in front of them, and although Will had believed that the thick skin he'd cultivated could protect him, he was shocked to see how much the things Ca.s.sie hadn't said could still hurt. His grandfather was half in love with her; his grandmother couldn't stop talking about her. It stung to know that someone with no Sioux blood running through her veins could carve a niche for herself when he'd never even gained a toehold.

Narrowing his eyes, Will did what had come naturally during all the years he'd lived second-cla.s.s in Pine Ridge: he struck back. He nodded slowly, as if he'd been considering Ca.s.sie's daily routine for quite some time. "You've got the elders wishing all wasicu were like you. Tagging along with Cyrus; asking the medicine man about berries and roots. Quite the little squaw."

Ca.s.sie lifted her chin, unwilling to defend her actions to the very person who'd brought her there. "What am I supposed to do all day?

Lie on the couch and watch my waist disappear? Besides, it's like Girl Scouts-surviving in the forest overnight and all that. It's good to know. Suppose I got stuck in the woods and twisted my ankle-"

"Suppose there were woods in L.A., and that all the twenty-fourhour pharmacies were closed?" Will snorted and took a long pull of his beer, finishing it. "You are planning on going back, aren't you?"

Ca.s.sie's face closed in on itself, and for an awful moment Will thought she was going to cry. Out of nowhere, he remembered being in second grade, when a new kid had entered the school. Horace was only one-quarter Indian, and Will had made friends with him, figuring that he owed it to someone who took him out of the scapegoat position.

It worked: the same bullies who'd stepped on his sandwiches at lunch and broken his pencils were now asking him to pitch their baseball games and inviting him over on weekends. Will could remember the warm feeling that grew from his stomach when he understood he was being accepted, and before he knew it he was acting like them. He didn't even realize it until one day after school he hid behind a copse of trees, waiting for Horace to round the bend, and with all the other kids he threw stones and twigs until Horace ran.

But not before Will had seen his face. He was looking straight at Will, at n.o.body else, like he was plainly saying, Not you too.

Will shook his head to clear it, unsure what that had to do with Ca.s.sie, except for the horrible feeling that had seized him when he realized just how much he'd hurt someone who'd done absolutely nothing to him. "Hey," he said, trying to lighten the mood. He nodded in the direction of the television. "You're going to miss your show."

As he had asked, the bartender had switched the channel fifteen minutes before the broadcast of the Academy Awards. Will didn't have a clue what was on beforehand; he figured it was some stupid sitcom.

But looming over his head was Alex Rivers's face, and sitting beside him on a couch was Ca.s.sie herself.

"The Barbara Walters interview," Ca.s.sie murmured. She was holding her c.o.c.ktail napkin so tight her knuckles blanched and the wet paper ripped down the middle. Then she started to laugh hysterically. "He was supposed to be on second. Not last. Second."

A thousand things were cutting through her mind: What if he'd known he was scheduled third all along? Would they never have had that argument? Would she not have had to run away at all? She stared at the familiar curtains of her living room, at the storm whipping through the azalea bushes outside. She took in the bouquet of lilies that some set dresser on Barbara Walters's crew had placed on the coffee table where there was usually a big book of New Yorker magazine covers.

But most of all she looked at Alex, who was sitting right next to this shadow of herself, looking fresh and clean shaven and just as he did every morning when he came out of the bathroom and took her breath away. On the television, his hands strummed restlessly over her shoulder. He was telling the world that Alex Rivers and his wife watched Sat.u.r.day morning cartoons in bed.

Oh G.o.d, Alex. Ca.s.sie fought back the urge to let the tears well into her eyes, to stand up and touch her fingers to the TV set as if she could stroke warm flesh. Until she saw him again, she had not realized what she had been missing.

Then she heard her own voice. Ca.s.sie blinked, forcing herself to turn from Alex's reactions to her own mouth forming the words. She shifted uncomfortably in her chair, thinking how odd her voice sounded, not like hers at all. "I expected him to be a hotshot celebrity pushing around his weight to show who was in control," Ca.s.sie heard herself say, "and I'm sorry to say that at first, he didn't disappoint me." She saw Alex's eyes flash at the turn of her sentence, which really did make him sound like a fool. Even though it had happened weeks ago, Ca.s.sie flinched.

She wondered if the rest of the world could see that quick anger just below the surface; if they noticed that she leaned a little to the left, away from her injured side; if they recognized the ghost of a bruise beneath the gauzy sleeve of her blouse.

They cut most of the interview when Ca.s.sie talked. In fact, Barbara Walters ended with Happily Ever After, asking Alex, "Why Ca.s.sie?"

And Alex stared right at the camera and said, "She was made for me."

Cut, clip in the quick kiss he'd given her at the end of the interview, which some editor had frozen so that Alex's lips were fused to hers eternally even as Barbara Walters started her wrap-up to the commercial.

Will glanced at Ca.s.sie. She was staring at the Pampers ad as if she did not understand the mechanics of how Alex had disappeared from the screen and was still wondering how to get him to come back.

He stood up and walked to the bar, ordering another beer. "And chips or something," Will added. "It's going to be a h.e.l.l of a long night."

"I CAN'T BELIEVE HE BROUGHT SOMEONE ELSE."

Ca.s.sie had been saying that since the montage at the beginning of the Academy Awards, where Melanie something or other had stepped out of the same limousine as Alex. She had drunk her second gla.s.s of water in its entirety before Alex had even made it through the doors of the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion. "That b.i.t.c.h," she whispered, all the while tracking Alex, only Alex.

It looked promising: in the first major award of the evening, Jack Green had won Best Supporting Actor, and had metaphorically toasted Alex with a wave of his little gold statuette. From there on, for two and a half hours, the name of the film would come up every now and then-cinematography, editing, sound mixing. Will had lost count of the number of Oscars actually won about an hour ago, when he'd finished his sixth and final beer. He didn't know how Ca.s.sie was still sitting up, much less staying awake.

He put his head down on the table in front of her. "Wake me in the last fifteen minutes if he wins anything big," Will said.

Ca.s.sie nodded, swallowed. She ran her finger through the salt at the bottom of the peanut bowl. "You know why they're called Oscars?" she said some time later, to no one in particular. "A secretary who worked at the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences said it reminded her of her uncle Oscar. Isn't that the stupidest thing . . . that you've ever heard?"

Because he heard the hitch in her voice, Will squinted open one eye.

Tears were running down Ca.s.sie's cheeks; for all her ramrod-straight posture she was falling apart. He pushed his chair around the sawdusted floor until it touched the side of Ca.s.sie's, and he pulled her into his arms. "It's okay," he said, wondering how long he'd been asleep, if Alex had already lost, if he'd just missed it.

"It's not okay," Ca.s.sie said against Will's shoulder. "It's never been okay. I ought to be sitting in the second row there. I ought to be the one whose face comes into the viewfinder every time the camera runs across his row."

"Look at the bright side," Will said. "You'd probably be fast asleep by now."

"But I'd be fast asleep there," Ca.s.sie said. "It's the most important night of his life and I'm a thousand miles away."

But you're not, Will wanted to say. You're here with me. He looked at her so intently that she stopped crying and simply stared back.

And then they announced the nominations for Best Actor.

As easily as she would step out of the front seat of a car, Ca.s.sie disengaged herself from Will. She shrugged off his arm and leaned her elbows on the table, inches closer to her husband. When the television replayed a short scene from The Story of His Life, Alex's reflection shimmered in a pool of condensation caught on the table between Ca.s.sie's flattened palms.

And the Oscar for Best Actor goes to . . .

Ca.s.sie stopped breathing. The televised light bathed her face, making its planes and angles shine.

Alex Rivers.

Ca.s.sie's eyes gleamed, and with a palpable hunger she watched Alex walk up the aisle to the podium to accept the little statue. Will wondered if she realized that she was reaching toward the television with her right hand, as if she'd be able to touch him.

He didn't give a d.a.m.n about Alex Rivers's Oscar, but he could not tear his gaze from Ca.s.sie. He'd thought she looked good when he first brought the truck around at his grandparents', but before his eyes she had turned into a creature of grace and glow. When Alex was on that screen, she came alive.

Will had never been so angry in his life.

Four weeks ago when Ca.s.sie had shown up on his doorstep, he had seen the evidence of the ill.u.s.trious Alex Rivers's rage; he had understood the burden she'd been left with. But until now, Will had had no idea just how much of Ca.s.sie herself Alex had taken away.

Alex's golden hair was brighter than the Oscar, and Ca.s.sie watched his hands flex around the statuette's body. He was looking right at her.

"I'd like to thank Herb Silver, and Warner Brothers, and Jack Green and . . ." Ca.s.sie tuned out his actual words, watching instead the lines of his mouth, pink and sculpted, and imagining it coming over hers.

"But this award is for my wife, Ca.s.sie, who found me the script and convinced me that it was something the public would want to see, as well as something I needed to do. She's with her father tonight because he's ill, and when I spoke to her a few hours ago, she was upset that she couldn't make it back here. Well, I was a little nervous, so I didn't get to say everything I needed to before I hung up the phone. What I wanted to tell her is this: You could be halfway around the world, Ca.s.sie, and you'd still be with me." He cleared his vision, now looking at the sea of faces staring up at him. "Thank you," he said, and all too quickly, he was gone.

Ca.s.sie watched him accept his two other Oscars. It was clearly Alex's night, and yet he never failed to mention her. The second time, he told the world he loved her. The third time, he whispered, "Hurry home,"

so softly Ca.s.sie wondered if anyone else watching had even heard.

When Will pulled her up and propelled her out the door of the bar, she tried to picture what her night might have otherwise been like. She would have worn a froth of a gown-Alex would have seen to that- and every time his name was called he would have turned to her and lifted her out of her seat in his embrace. She could feel his strong arm, the itch of his tuxedo jacket under her fingertips, as she moved through Spago and The Gate with him, circulating the post-Oscar parties. She would hold two statues, still warm from where Alex's hands had wrung their naked necks. Then she would go home and drop the awards onto the carpet and Alex would pour himself into her, hot, frantic, the very essence of success.

But instead Ca.s.sie walked into the cold March night, dizzied by the rash display of stars, and remembered her life for what she'd made of it.

Will watched her mouth turn down at the corners. She'd been moping through the whole broadcast, in spite of the fact that slick Alex had told the twenty million people watching that his entire life revolved around his wife. h.e.l.l, he'd even admitted she was out of town, although he'd candy-coated the circ.u.mstances. He was no fool, he knew she'd be watching. Will would have peevishly said the whole speech was calculated, if he hadn't noticed with his own eyes that Alex had managed to put into words the exact way Ca.s.sie had been staring at that television screen.

Alex probably did love her, for whatever that was worth, and Ca.s.sie seemed to believe it carried considerable value. But Will thought it might kill him to actually see them together again. She'd probably cling to Alex as if her knees didn't work and Alex would look at her like, well, like Will had been looking at her all night.

"That was something," Will said noncommittally, unlocking the pa.s.senger door of the truck.

"Mmm," Ca.s.sie said. She looked miserable.

"Your husband just cleaned out the Oscars," Will muttered. "It would make sense for you to show a little emotion." He grabbed Ca.s.sie's shoulders, shaking her lightly. "He misses you. He's crazy about you.

What the h.e.l.l is your problem?"

Ca.s.sie shrugged, a delicate tremor that worked its way under Will's palms. "I guess I still wish I had been there," she admitted.

Will exploded. "Four weeks ago you couldn't think of anything but getting away. You showed me the places where he'd kicked you in the ribs and hit you across the neck. Or have you forgotten about that side of your charming husband, just like he probably was hoping you would when you watched tonight, so you'd come crawling back?" He glared at Ca.s.sie, who was standing mute, her mouth slightly parted. "Believe me," he said, "I know better than anyone. You can't have the best of both worlds."

She stared at him as if she'd never seen him before, and tried to take a step back. But Will would not let go of her. He wanted her to realize that he was right. He wanted Ca.s.sie to be able to slice away all the pretty packaging Alex had handed her tonight across the airwaves and see him for what he really was. He wanted her to look at him-Will- the way she had looked at Alex.

Will tightened his grip on Ca.s.sie's shoulders and pressed his lips against hers. Frustrated, his mouth ground into hers, his tongue forcing his way until, with the gentleness of a saint, she yielded under his touch.

Her arms crept around his waist slowly, a white flag, a selfless surrender that ripped at the edges of his conscience.

He stepped away abruptly, angry at himself for his lack of control, angry at Ca.s.sie for simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Another man's wife. Pregnant. Stomping to his side of the truck, he swung himself into the cab and turned over the ignition. He flicked on the headlights, spotlighting Ca.s.sie. She was frozen in the moment. Her hand was pressed to her mouth; her wedding ring gleamed like a prophecy. From this distance, Will could not be sure if she was wiping away the taste of him, or trying to hold it in.

ALEX RIVERS-THE MOST SOUGHT-AFTER ACTOR/DIRECTOR IN HOLlywood at the moment, which was a little after four a.m.-sat in the dark in his Bel-Air study. He eyed the three gold statuettes he'd lined up in front of himself like decoys at a shooting gallery. What a night it had been. What a h.e.l.l of a night.

He had never wished more fervently that he was drunk, but no matter how much champagne he'd consumed in honor of himself that evening, oblivion wasn't coming. He had left the last party a little over an hour ago. When he'd walked out, Melanie was going to snort c.o.ke in the bathroom with a costume designer, and Herb was negotiating Alex's rapidly rising salary with a huddle of producers. The snafus plaguing Macbeth were suddenly forgotten by the industry; Alex was a golden boy once again. When he paused at the threshold of the door, everyone was saying his name, but n.o.body even noticed he'd left.

He wondered if Ca.s.sie had been watching tonight, then lashed out at himself for even wondering.

This was his night. For Christ's sake, how long had he been working toward this? How long had he been in the process of proving himself?

He ran his hands over the bald heads of the statues, amazed at the way they seemed to retain the warmth of human touch.

He picked up his first Oscar, weighing it in his palm as he would a baseball. Then his fingers closed around it. "This is for you, maman,"

he said, and he hurled it across the study with such force that it cut the wallpaper and dented the Sheetrock with its impact.

He picked up the second one, the one for his father, and threw it in the same direction, grunting with satisfaction as his fingers released the smooth metal.

His lips stretched in the imitation of a smile as he walked toward the third Oscar. Save the best for last. He gripped the narrow body, thinking of his dear, devoted wife, and he stretched back his arm.

He couldn't do it. With a strange keening sound at the back of his throat, Alex fell heavily into the desk chair. He ran his fingers over the statuette as if in apology, as if he were feeling the soft curve of Ca.s.sie's neck and the blunted edges of her hair. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes when they started to sting; he lowered his head to the desk.

Best Picture, Best Actor, Best Director, Worst Husband. Alex had seen the parallel before where art imitated life, but never had it rocked him to the soul. His acceptance speeches tonight had been carefully written, plotted word by word to catch Ca.s.sie, wherever she was, and reel her back to him. He was only beginning to see how much he had really meant the things he said.

He could wake up tomorrow with a hundred movie offers and a going salary of twenty million per film, but it wouldn't be enough. It would never be enough. He would trade it all and live in a cardboard box on the beach if he could rip out of himself the part of him that caused her pain.

In the shifting shadows of his study, Alex Rivers whispered aloud the secret that none of the glittering people still partying on Sunset Boulevard knew: He was a n.o.body.

Unless. Until.

She made him whole.

When the private line of the telephone rang beside his head, he knew he had conjured her. He picked up the receiver and waited to hear Ca.s.sie's voice.

There was no way Alex could know the trouble Ca.s.sie had gone to to find a phone. It had meant sneaking past Will, who was pretending to be asleep on the floor but had let her go without a word. It meant taking Will's truck, without permission, to the Catholic church and waking the priest and hoping her white skin could convince him of a fabricated emergency. It meant waiting through several false starts with her heart at the back of her throat until a South Dakota operator finally reached Bel-Air.

"Alex," she whispered. Her word was an embrace. "Congratulations."

It had been so long, and he was so shocked that his televised speech had actually brought her to him, that Alex could not speak at all for a moment. Then he hunched his shoulders forward, as if he could cradle Ca.s.sie's voice with his own physical presence. "Where are you?" he asked.

She had been expecting this. She didn't want to divulge anything; she only wanted to hear Alex. "I won't tell you," Ca.s.sie said. "I can't.

But I'm all right. And I'm very proud of you."

Alex realized he was drinking in her voice, storing it inside himself to play again and again. "When are you coming back? What made you leave?" He reined in his emotions. "I could find you, you know," he said carefully. "If I wanted to, I could."

Ca.s.sie took a deep breath. "You could," she said with a practiced bravado, "but you won't." She waited for him to contradict her, and when he didn't she told him what he already knew. "I won't come back because you want me to, Alex. I'll only come back because I want to."

It was a lie; if he'd broken down and begged her she would have taken the next plane to L.A. She was bluffing, and maybe Alex knew it too, but he also knew how much was at stake. Ca.s.sie had never hidden from him before, after all. And if ensuring a happy ending meant playing by her rules, he would do whatever she asked. So he swallowed his pride, his fear, and his failure. "Are you really all right?" he asked softly.

Ca.s.sie curled the phone cord around her wrist like a bracelet. "I'm okay," she said. She glanced up to see the priest's silhouette at the rectory door. "I have to go now."

Alex panicked, gripping the phone more tightly. "You'll call back?"

he pressed. "Soon?"

Ca.s.sie considered this. "I'll call back," she conceded, thinking about the baby and what Alex had a right to know. "I'll call when I want you to come for me."

She wanted him to come. She wanted him. "Are we talking days? Weeks?"

Alex asked. He let a grin dance under his words. "Because after tonight, my schedule's a nightmare."

Ca.s.sie smiled. "I'm sure you can prioritize," she said. She hesitated before giving Alex a gift to keep through the months that would stretch out ahead. "I miss you," she whispered, no longer smiling. "I miss you so much." And she put down the phone before he could hear her fall apart.

Alex stared at his Oscars. The proofs of his success lay toppled on the floor, scarring the wood when they had landed. The last statuette stood beside the telephone. Ca.s.sie had severed the connection; all that remained was a dull dial tone. Alex did not notice when he began to cry. For an hour, he held the receiver like an amulet, even when the tuneless voice of an operator told him over and over to hang up and try again.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO CYRUS had repeated the third grade for eight years, not because of his limited intelligence but because in the 1920s, the reservation's school didn't go any higher. He had a rudimentary knowledge of reading and writing, but math other than addition and subtraction was beyond him and his spelling was phonetic. His specialty was history- not the white man's history, as he told Ca.s.sie, that the missionary teachers had tried to cram down their throats with their textbooks, but the way it really was.

Because Dorothea spent so much time at the cafeteria, Ca.s.sie was left alone with Cyrus quite often. She had a feeling he liked having the company; he'd put away his knitting and sometimes he whittled when they walked together, but mostly he just made conversation. He told her stories that had been pa.s.sed down to him from his own father- Indian myths, boyhood tales about Crazy Horse, near-eyewitness accounts of the Battle of Little Bighorn and the tragedy at Wounded Knee.